He came out of nowhere and steadily rose to the top, season after season. He earned his pro card during his first season, then qualified for worlds the next. He didn’t win worlds for another couple of years but he’s the current reigning champion.
He’s sponsored by DGDP, a national athletic brand, plus he has several gear specific partnerships. I bet he doesn’t pay a dime for that several thousand dollar fitness watch I spotted on his wrist.
For being as standoffish as he was, I’ve only heard good things about him in race coverage. He isn’t on social media so all we get are what the reporters share after the race. He doesn’t give interviews either. But it’s clear he’s talented, dedicated, and respected.
Three words I’d love to have on my resume.
Granted, showing up mere seconds before the starting gun of my first TP event of the season wasn't the best move to garner respect and demonstrate my dedication. And finishing eighteenth in my age group hardly shows I’m talented.
I clearly have some work to do. And another three and a half hours of midwestern freeway driving to plan exactly how I'll save up enough for better gear while keeping my training up.
When I'm not dreaming about racing, I am dreaming about being the unknown beneficiary of cash. Of finding a duffel full of bills on the sidewalk. Or a multi-mega-millions winning lottery ticket falling into my lap.
Money, or the lack thereof, has been the theme of my entire life.
I gave up a vacation so you could run this race.
Why do you need a new bike? That one rolls.
If you’re going to do this, the least you could do is win and bring home some money instead of just wasting it.
My mother’s resentful words towards my father ring through my head.
He made me promise to “tri again” so here I am.
Borrowing my roommate’s car because I can’t afford my own.
Sleeping in it the night before a race because I can’t afford a hotel room.
Selfishly putting every single cent I find into racing.
But there is hope at the bottom of the piggy bank. All I have to do is get my pro card this season, secure a sponsor, and then I'm home free. I'll be racing for a living. I'll make good on my promise to my dad.
Win the race and I’ll be happy.
Earn the money and I’ll be free.
In the meantime, it all boils down to this: Swim. Bike. Run.
Life.
Chapter four
Miguel
On Your Left
Myalarmsoundsat5:05 a.m. Like it always does when I’m home. I stand up slowly, testing my muscles for strain after yesterday’s half TP. They feel good, maybe a little stiff but it feels more from sleep than exertion.
I easily walk across the room to turn off my alarm before starting my morning routine.
It's the one I developed in rehab when Jeff wasn’t my friend or training partner. He was my group leader and told me he had never seen a body more designed to run come into his facility before. I was greedy for compliments to bolster my wafer thin self esteem. When he shared he was a college track coach and would help me create a running habit, I said yes.
The next morning Jeff knocked on my door at 5:05 a.m. I woke in a cold sweat as my body struggled to detox the cocktail of prescriptions I had been feeding it for years. He helped me stand, took me to the sink to splash cold water on my face, and then waited while I laced up ratty old sneakers and joined him on a jog.
I barely made it a half a mile before losing the contents of my stomach on the sidewalk.
But, I was in that facility for forty-five days and I ran every morning thereafter.
